


a friend of the devil is a friend of mine

by Gondolin



Category: Saint Seiya, 聖闘士星矢 Gigantomachia - 浜崎達也 | Saint Seiya: Gigantomachia - Tatsuya Hamazaki
Genre: Blanket Permission, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Swearing, Tattoos, master and apprentice feels, no beta we die like Saints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gondolin/pseuds/Gondolin
Summary: “When I grow up, I’m going to be like you.”Deathmask turned a fearsome gaze on the little bugger. He didn’t think the kid would still be following him. The climb was steep, the terrain harsh and the air filled with volcanic ash. It was barely more breathable than the air in the kingdom of the dead.
Relationships: background mention of Aphrodite/Deathmask because this is who I am as a person
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	a friend of the devil is a friend of mine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Amici del diavolo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648863) by [Gondolin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gondolin/pseuds/Gondolin). 



> I am going to SCREAM at whoever decided that they could just mention in the novel that Mei has tattoos on his arms and then did NOT describe them. So naturally I had to pick up the slack myself.
> 
> The words in italic are said in Italian or Sicilian dialect, while the rest of the dialogue... well, it is in English here, but I would assume they'd be speaking Greek, since it't the official language of the Sanctuary? (I love talking about languages in Saint Seiya, talk to me about your fave language headcanons).  
> Translations:  
> testa ‘i minchia (Sicilian) = dickhead  
> ietta sangu, cugghiuni (Sicilian) = literally: "throw blood, ballsack" ('cugghiuni' or the Italian version, 'coglione' are very common insults)  
> vai scappando = go, run along  
> merda = shit  
> minchia = dick (but used grammatically like 'fuck' in English)
> 
> Title from Friend of the Devil by Mumford & Sons. Oh, it's been a while since I pilfered them for fic titles. So nostalgic.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be like you.”  
Deathmask turned a fearsome gaze on the little bugger. He didn’t think the kid would still be following him. The climb was steep, the terrain harsh and the air filled with volcanic ash. It was barely more breathable than the air in the kingdom of the dead.  
He laughed disparagingly at him and started walking again. At least the kid was stubborn, which he could respect.  
“Think of surviving, first.”  
Dripping with sweat, black hair plastered to his forehead and t-shirt now completely wet, the little bugger looked up at him in a perfect imitation of Deathmask’s own determined frown when he was that age. “I’m not dead yet.”

“I’m leaving for the Sanctuary, need anything?”  
“A Cloth!” yelled Mei as he did every single time.  
Deathmask rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. If Mei had a terrible sense of humour, there was only one person responsible.  
“And say hello to Dite for me!” he added.  
“Yeah, whatever,” Deathmask answered, before opening a very convenient portal to the land of the dead, from where he could then walk straight into the Fourth Temple. Not like that poor sod Aquarius, who had to walk all the way from Siberia every time.

“The fuck did you do?”  
Mei gave him a feral grin that would have scared anyone else. His hair was standing up in every direction. And it was grey. “I said I was going to be just like you.”  
“Bah. If you have time to dye your hair, then I’m not training you hard enough.”  
His pupil raised a single eyebrow and did not answer. Deathmask had been away a whole week. He had a scratch on his cheek, a bitemark visible on his neck and another peeking up from his t-shirt. The belt was missing from his pants.  
“Well, I can’t live like a fucking monk for you, kid.”  
Mei laughed. “Tell him to come visit us again, if he’s still a lazy bugger without students or responsibilities.”  
“ _Testa ‘i minchia_.”  
“ _Ietta sangu, cugghiuni_ ,” Mei replied without missing a beat, with his bizarre accent that made Deathmask’s native Sicilian dialect sound foreign to his own ears.  
“For this insolence, ten laps around the peak. Come on, _vai scappando_.”  
To his credit, Mei didn’t even breath a sound of protest and left running.

Now, Deathmask could not be considered a paragon of flawless mental stability. Still, Saga was truly losing it and sometimes he scared even him. He’d always been a bitch, ever since they were children, but the crisis of conscience followed by even more megalomania and monologuing about far-fetched plans, those were a more recent development.  
Now it seemed that a wench was pretending to be Athena and wanted to oppose the authority of the Sanctuary. Or maybe she was really Athena, what did he care? The problem was that Saga wasn’t taking the threat seriously enough.  
Deathmask had gone to do his duty as a Saint and murdered a whole bunch of girls to thwart the plans of the goddess Eris (because they couldn’t have only one damn crisis at a time). Then he’d decided that he really didn’t care to hear Saga grandstand and monologue some more, so he’d gone back home. Not to the Fourth House, but to his little house on the slopes of the Etna.  
He found Mei intent on demolishing a great rock with his bare fists. Mei wasn’t the little creature Deathmask had been saddled with years ago anymore. His body had grown into that of a true warrior, all wide shoulders and muscled arms. Underneath the constant sheen of volcanic ash, it was possible to make out the shapes of various tattoos: a strong olive tree rose from his left forearm, a Japanese-style crab on his right.  
Deathmask had a pack of beers and a bottle of limoncello. Mei dried the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then started undoing the bandages protecting his knuckles. “Are we celebrating something?”  
“Mh.”  
Deathmask slumped down on the stone bench built against the wall of the house and lit himself a cigarette. Mei sat down beside him and picked up one of the beers.  
“Who told you you can have it?”  
“Come on, old man, you can drop the act for five minutes.”  
“Ah, _merda_ , I’ve been too soft with you, haven’t I?”  
Mei rolled his eyes and bumped his shoulder into his master’s. “I grew up getting into fistfights with Ikki, I’m not that easily scared.”  
For a moment there was silence, only broken by the metallic sound of the beer can opening and then by the fizz of escaping beer, threatening to spill. Mei hurried to lick the foam from the top of the can.  
All around them was grey and arid, but neither of them missed so-called civilization.  
“Salvo.”  
“Uh?” Mei asked. He had slumped all the way down to the floor and he was now leaning against the bench, his head thrown back on the seat. He accepted the half-empty limoncello bottle from Deathmask’s hand.  
“My name, before. Before. Salvatore, actually, Salvo for short. It means ‘saviour’. If you ever use it, I am going to kill you.”  
“Salvatore,” Mei choked out, laughing so hard tears were streaming down his cheeks. Some limoncello came out, painfully, from his nose, but he took another swig trying to calm himself. “ _Minchia_ , master, the irony.”  
Deathmask turned a murderous glare on him, but Mei stared up at him with the same insolent stare he’d been directing at him for years. “I’m still not dead, am I?”  
“Guess not,” Deathmask snorted.

Cleaned up from the volcanic ash that was impossible to avoid on the Etna, with every bruise and scrape medicated or covered by plasters and bandages, and wearing civilian clothes, Mei almost didn’t recognise himself. The black roots of his hair were peeking out from underneath the artificial grey, and he looked tired, with deep bags under his eyes.  
There was a new emptiness in the stars and for the first time in many years, Mei thought about the kids he’d grown up with, about his brothers.  
“Tell me if it hurts too much and you need a break, okay?” the tattoo artist said and Mei had to stop himself from laughing in her face. After all, she was just doing her job and trying to be kind, she could not possibly know the depth of pain the training of a Saint entailed.  
An aspiring Saint. Mei bit his lower lip and shut his eyes tight. His opportunity to obtain a Cloth was now gone, vanished like one of the shadows that his master could conjure at will.  
Deathmask was now part of the man Mei had become and he didn’t need anything more to remember him by. But he wanted something tangible, and he had chosen to portray those very souls, surrounded by a thin wisp of smoke. Blue and purple ghosts slowly appeared on his arm, near the shape of the volcano where he’d grown up, the crab shaped like a Japanese mask, the river of stars of the Milky Way and the columns of the Sanctuary, holy land for every Saint.  
Or aspiring Saint.  
“But I’m not dead yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> The tattoo of the [olive tree](https://live.staticflickr.com/1514/24847869682_bd66092f8f_b.jpg), [the crab](https://tattmag.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/heikegani-tattoo-12.jpg), and [the smoke](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/02/a6/69/02a669c720588f8cac4aad03ee6b03f5.jpg).
> 
> [This comic](https://okonomiyaki-saint.tumblr.com/post/638652912663461888/mei-has-seen-some-deep-shit-during-his-training) is the best thing I have EVER seen about these two, and it was somewhat of inspiration for drunk Deathmask.


End file.
